Between Right and Wrong
by FrenchieLeigh
Summary: Soujiro's life is perfect. He finally has parents who love him, he's popular at school, and his best friend is the girl of his dreams. But when a thug goes too far, the lines between right and wrong blur, and he impulsively makes a choice that shatters his utopia. Soujiro/Misao AU: Sequel to "Homecoming", "Striptease"-verse
1. Lighting the Fuse

**Author's Note**: Since _Homecoming_ had a little show of Soujiro/Misao, that really sort of stuck with me.

I've never really written Misao OR Soujiro in their appropriate ages so, uh, bear with me. Trying not to make Soujiro a sixteen year old Okita was not easy, despite the influence he'd clearly have, and their similar personalities to begin with.

Also. Okita as a dad. It never freakin' gets old.

I guess I'll throw in a warning here. There's a lot of **f-bombs** dropped in this piece. This will be 2-4 chapters in length.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the official Rurouni Kenshin/Samurai X characters. I do reserve the rights to all OCs

**Between Right and Wrong .**01

"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed today, gentlemen."

Sixteen year old Okita Soujiro adjusted the book bag on his shoulders and flashed a smile at the three thugs that stood before him. It was a sunny spring day, just on the cusp of summer and school had just let out. He was not afraid of these punks as they laughed at him, cracking their knuckles, but bored of them today.

The biggest of the three, one Keisuke by name, stepped forward with a daring look, an invitation for a fight. Soujiro wasn't about to accept it; he had little time for something so vulgar as fighting without reason. In front of his classmates, no less.

The truth was, this was routine for him and had been for several years. When he had been adopted into the loving Okita family, he had been nothing short of grateful, but their kindness could only do so much. He was, in fact, a strange creature, a disarming child with nightmarish baggage. No matter how much his new parents loved him, it didn't make fitting in at school any easier.

He had done what they told him to do. Smile and accept his classmates. Be kind to them. Remain polite, and honest. He had already known most of this; it was his main defense mechanism, but one thing that his parents had taught him that he had feared his whole short life was that it was alright to cry. He was _allowed_ to feel sad and frustrated. Emotions need not be cast aside, but embraced, learned, and controlled.

For the most part, he had done well, even if his social progress was much slower than that of his peers. He had made friends and by the time he reached high school, it was safe to say that Okita Soujiro was _popular_. Girls swooned when he walked by, and the boys always vied for his attention and his approval. His grades were perfect, he excelled at sports, and he always.

_Always_.

Smiled.

There were, of course, bullies, and since the third grade, this trio of degenerates had made him their prime target. At first it had been silly things. Stolen pencils and upturned desks, but over the years, despite his popularity, things progressed down a road that he blocked off to all except himself, and his antagonists.

"You're just a bunch of pansies, you lame asses!"

And then there was _her_.

Shinomori Misao was (aside from his parents of course) the best thing to ever enter his life. He had met her his very first day in Kyoto ten years ago, and they had rarely spent a moment apart since. She was the salve to his wounds, the sunlight of his darkness, and the laughter he so desperately wished for when he lay curled up on his coconut shaped bean bag chair, sobbing from the nightmare that had woken him.

It wasn't that his parents weren't good enough; they were. They were wonderful. But they didn't quite understand him the way Misao did. His mother knew his grief the best, having lived it herself, but she was older now, and her memories had faded with the love she had found in his father, but Misao was a kid too. She knew how to speak to his very soul.

She was bold, so very bold when Soujiro himself clung to rationality and logic. He did grow to participate in the kendo club, blowing everyone away with his natural abilities, but Misao was much more aggressive than that. She threw herself into _any_ form of combat there was to learn. He still hadn't learned why this was, but he liked it. He liked it so much he had once referred to her as his "little ninja".

She had pouted and shoved him off the ledge they had been walking on, but he had smiled and the name had stuck.

Over the years she had grown from playmate to competitor to confident, and to protector. And now, as they were both well into adolescence, something new had blossomed between them. Something that brought with it secret smiles and stolen kisses behind the backs of ever watchful older brothers and over excited mothers.

Yes, it was safe to say that Okita Soujiro had fallen in love with her.

"What did you say, little girl?"

Soujiro sighed and put his hand on Misao's shoulder when she bristled and stepped forward. When would these bozos learn?

"They're not worth it," he said, "you know that."

Emerald eyes flashing, Misao was hardly interested in what they were worth. Taking a defensive stance, she bared her teeth.

"Come at me, you wuss!" she screamed, "all of you! I don't care!"

They made no motion to advance on her, instead, they burst out in laughter, like they did every day.

"How pathetic!" one of them sneered, coming up to Soujiro and shoving his shoulder. "Why you gotta always have your girl to fight for you?"

"Yeah!" said the third, "little chicken shit freak!"

But Soujiro smiled at them. "I could destroy the three of you in one move," he explained smoothly, "but I won't."

"Won't 'cause you _can't_, pretty boy."

"No," he corrected, "I won't because I have little use for such... primitive activities. You have hardly given me a reason to fight you."

He knew what they really wanted. Aside from the fact that they simply didn't like him, they wanted to make him snap. They had leeched onto him when he was young and vulnerable and were determined to crack him now that he was not. And Soujiro knew why.

"Let me pass," he sighed, pushing through the group, his fingers laced with Misao's. If she were late coming home, her brother would ask questions.

"What a fag," scoffed Keisuke, "You think your better than us just because you got rich parents?"

_This again._

"Gonna run home to daddy, Sou?"

Soujiro steeled his jaw. He knew what was coming next and no matter how many times he ignored it and no matter how many times he told himself it wasn't important, it still stung.

"He's not even your real dad." the thug turned to his lackeys, "you know that, guys? This little prick's adopted."

The other two laughed, eyes glistening. Misao stiffened beside Soujiro and he squeezed her hand, a silent plea for her to let him deal with it.

"Your _real_ dad's dead, isn't he?" Keisuke asked, circling the pair, "your whore of a mother shot him, isn't that right? You're nothing but a charity case, you know that? The only reason you have any parents is because they _felt bad_ for you."

"Don't be jealous," Soujiro replied sweetly, "if it's money you need, all you need do is ask politely. I have received charity and I'm very happy to give it in return."

At the offensive statement, Keisuke drew back his arm and hurled his fist at Soujiro's face, but when the boy lifted his hand and effortlessly stopped the punch, he gasped in disbelief.

Soujiro smiled at him, "Really," he whispered, "I wouldn't."

"What kind of freak are you?" asked the offender, trying to pull back his arm, but finding it stuck in Soujiro's surprisingly strong grip. "You've got that freaky smile, just like your pig cop father!"

Placidly, Soujiro released his classmate and again, adjusted his book bag. "My father is a great man," he said, narrowing his eyes. He was letting their words get under his skin. He shouldn't have, but he couldn't help it. "You're upset because he put yours in jail."

For a moment, Keisuke was stunned, speechless at the low blow the mysterious black haired boy had just delivered. It was the first time he had ever truly raised to a battle, and it was unnerving how easily the words had flowed out of his mouth. When the couple walked away, he balled his hands into fists.

"You _are_ crazy, you little fuck!" he screamed at Soujiro's back. "Just like your crazy bat-shit _fucking_ mother!"

Fuse lit, Misao threw down her bag and spun on her heel. "You want to say that to our faces you piece of shit?" she demanded. Soujiro sighed and put his arm out, blocking her from moving forward.

"It's not worth it, little ninja, let's go."

"Come here!" she screamed, ignoring him, "come here and I'll crack your skulls open! Come on!"

Keisuke laughed. "Just you wait, little girl. Wait till I get you alone. Then we'll see who's ripping who open."

Soujiro groaned and with a strong hand on her upper arm, bent to retrieve her bag and dragged her down the street, despite her heavy resistance.

"You hear that, Soujiro?!" Keisuke called out before they were gone from his sight, "I'm gonna tear your girl apart!"

Rounding the corner, Soujiro handed Misao her bag, and with a soft exhale, he took hold of her hand again.

"How many times do I have to tell you to just let it go?" he asked, "they're just a bunch of jerks. They'll stop if we ignore them."

Though he played disinterest, Misao had known him long enough to see through the thin veil that fooled everyone else so easily. He had been offended today, hurt even. She could see it now in his eyes, those deep blue oculars that never lied to her, regardless of what his mouth said.

"Yeah well you've been saying that since we were kids and it hasn't stopped yet." Flicking her braid over her shoulder, she shrugged, and tossed him a grin, "besides, maybe I don't feel like protecting you anymore. Maybe you're gonna have to deal with them _without_ me sending them running."

Soujiro chuckled. As ferocious as she could be, her juvenile threats hardly ever sent Keisuke and his gang _running_. He'd never tell her this, of course. She prided herself in being his protector, even if they both knew he no longer needed it.

"Well it's just high school," he said, "and next year will be the last year of it."

Letting out a huff, Misao swung their arms, squeezing his hand with each swing, "Well whatever. Have you decided what you're going to study yet? Every time I ask you, you just laugh at me."

Soujiro looked over at her. "I don't really know yet. I know dad would like for me to join the police force with him but... I don't think that's really for me. I think maybe I'd like to be a teacher."

Misao raised a brow. "You say you want to get out of high school.. but then you want to go back?"

"Not high school," he laughed, "Elementary. I'd really like to help with kids, you know, like me."

"You're already helping," she pointed out, "Your mom's got all those events."

It was true. Since his adoption, his mother had started multiple charities, events, and programs for abused children. He participated in these regularly, sharing his experience and reaching out to those who needed a helping hand, but it wasn't enough. He wanted to help the kids who were_ just like him_. The kids who never said a word, the kids who acted just fine. The kids who would never be as lucky as he had been.

With a laugh and a smile, he reached behind his head to scratch his neck. "Well I guess I just like kids, that's all."

A block away from her house attached to the restaurant her family owned, he kissed her, and when they spotted her brother's car in the drive, she mouthed, _I'll call you_, and ducked into the restaurant to begin her shift. With a light fluttering in his stomach, Soujiro turned and headed up the hill to his own house.

He was surprised to see his father's car and as a lead ball of dread dropped into his stomach, he burst into the giant house, threw off his shoes, and tossed his bag on the floor.

"Dad!" he cried out, running through the living room and into the kitchen, "Dad!"

Okita Soushi popped up from behind a counter where he had been looking for a cooking pot and with a raised brow, gave his son a curiously amused look.

Calming himself, Soujiro gave his father a once over, then slowly sat down on a stool at the counter. "Are you feeling alright?"

Okita smiled at him. "I'm fine, Sou. Ta-chan had to be picked up at the vet this afternoon so I took a half day."

Soujiro exhaled in relief. His father was recovering from a near fatal battle with Tuberculosis and both Soujiro and his wife Shousha (along with everyone at the station) were on constant watch for any sign that he might fall ill again. It wasn't fair, and it made Soujiro angry to think that something could have taken away someone who loved him so early and so young.

It had been a shock when the illness had claimed him at the tender age of thirty-two, but despite his gentle nature, Okita was a fighter for what he believed in. Caring for his wife and child was one such thing, and he'd be damned if he died before either of them had the emotional stability to let him go.

Considering both of them, they never would.

So he had come out victorious and was now steadily regaining his health. He was well enough to return to work, and it was rare that he found himself faint. Still, those close to him couldn't help but worry.

When he put on a pot of boiling water, he offered his son some soba and when he sat down to enjoy it, they both smiled.

"So how was school today?"

Soujiro remembered Keisuke and grimaced, but pushed it aside. "It was good. We're starting to plan the art festival."

"Ah, mom will be happy about that."

He smiled, "Misao isn't though. She sucks at art."

Okita watched his son as he retreated up into his head, thinking on the girl for a moment, before a faint dusting of pink appeared on his cheeks.

"So," he said carefully, not knowing quite how to phrase his question. At thirty-three, the age difference between father and teenage son seemed a lot smaller now and they were beginning to border on a friendship over parent and child, but at the same time, he was still his father and didn't want to cross boundaries that Soujiro wasn't yet ready to cross.

"How is your little ninja?"

"The same," he replied, "You know: loud and headstrong with a distinct disregard for her own best interest."

"She's pretty too," Okita offered.

"Yeah," Soujiro replied, biting back a smile. "Yeah, she really is."

"I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable but, have you ever considered dating her? I know all the girls at school are in love with you, but you never bring any of them home."

Soujiro's eyes widened. "Date Misao? I doubt Aoshi-san would approve of that."

But Okita heard what Soujiro's heart said._ Of course I've considered it. I only wish her brother would free up her leash._

"Well," said Okita, pulling back their empty bowls, "she's growing up. He'll realize that soon."

Grateful for his father's confidence, Soujiro slid off the stool and made his way back into the foyer to retrieve the bag he had thrown. He had a few tests he ought to be studying for.

"Oh, Sou!"

Poking his head back into the kitchen, he gave Okita a small 'hm?'

"Your mother and I are going out to dinner with uncle Saitou tonight. Apparently Tokio's been craving five star restaurants."

Soujiro snickered, "oh _auntie_," he sighed affectionately, "it's bad luck to say no to a pregnant lady, so she's quite clever, isn't she?"

Okita laughed with him and with a wave, Soujiro headed upstairs to his bedroom.

Their wolf-dog, Ta-chan was curled up on the floor next to his desk and he leaned down to stroke his ears and examine his side where the vet had removed a cluster of tumors. He was old now, just about the same age as Soujiro, and the cancer that was attacking his body had robbed him of his eyesight. He wasn't able to use the stairs on his own anymore, so Shousha had installed a special lift for him on the staircase. He had taken to sleeping by Soujiro's desk because he couldn't hop onto the bed anymore.

Still, he was a good dog, loyal and happy. Each night, Soujiro helped him up onto the bed. When they slept together, neither of them had nightmares.

Saying a quick prayer over the stitches, Soujiro gave the dog another loving pat, and set himself to his homework.

He bade his parents goodnight when they left, and brought Ta-chan's dinner up into his room. The less walking the poor dog had to do the quicker he would heal.

Once he was through with his homework and studying, he pulled out a plastic box filled with compartments and pulled out various car parts, scaled models of their existing counterparts in the real world. It wasn't the cars that interested him so much, but the meticulousness of piecing together such an intricate model. It was pastime he had done with his father as a child, and had since taken over the operation. What had started out as a bonding activity had turned into his way of gathering his thoughts, sorting out the good from the bad, and weighing the questionable.

His current project was a 2013 Fender Edition Volkswagen Beetle.

Just minutes into his progress, his phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, opening up the text message. It was from his father.

_Want to go shooting tomorrow? :)_

He smiled and typed back a quick, _you know it_, and resumed his work.

At a younger age than may have been appropriate, Okita had taken him to the gun range. Many parents were appalled at the decision, and even the psychologist he was seeing twice a week had advised against it. Okita, however, didn't care. The boy had expressed an interest in weapons, so he would honor this interest. He would show the boy how to use them properly, but above all else, how to _respect_ them.

Okita's fear was not that Soujiro would learn to wield a weapon, but that by suppressing this desire, the moment he got his hands on one, he would _not know_ how to use it, and certain chaos would ensue.

To a normal family, this was an irrational fear, but the Okita household was not normal. Okita himself was a high ranking police officer in the homicide department, and Shousha was a pseudo celebrity with a knack for attracting the wrong kind of press. Even his uncle, the straight and narrow Saitou Hajime, one of the best members of the police force, had familial connections with the syndicate.

Okita had confidence that a time would come where either he or Soujiro would need to defend themselves, or their family.

Soujiro liked to go shooting. He had, as had been planned, learned to respect weapons, appreciate them, and understand them. He had shed his initial interest in the power that they held, and now looked upon them as a sport, or an art even. He was also able to unleash the anger that he stored up and suppressed.

With happy thoughts of shooting in his mind, he was looking forward to forgetting Keisuke and his wretched remarks. He had one year left of the torment, and then he'd be free forever.

At half past nine, his phone rang, and when he saw Misao's face on the screen, his heart sped up, and he smiled, sliding his finger across the touch screen to answer the call.

"Hey there, little ninja," he cooed, using his shoulder to keep the phone steady while he applied a thin decal to the car.

There was no answer and he put his tools down, holding his phone out to check the reception. "Misao?"

He could hear scuffling on the other end and tried to make it out. It sounded like an accidental call, but with touchscreen phones, they didn't happen often. Still, he shrugged and was about to hang up when he heard her voice.

"At school," she whispered.

Soujiro laughed, "Little ninja you did not just drunk dial me! Are you out with your friends?"

His laughter was cut short, however, when he heard yelling. Demands.

"_He's got a gun_!" she hissed, but before he could ask who, she screamed and the call ended.

Normally a quick thinker, Soujiro sat back in shock. What had he just heard? Had it really been Misao? It didn't sound like her. But then again, he couldn't remember a time when she had been scared. He didn't know what scared sounded like.

_ At school_. She was at school. But why? He sat there for a moment, soaking it all in, but when her last words hit him a second time, he stood, knocking over his chair and dashing from his bedroom. He ran down the hall, into his parents bedroom where he flung open their closet and dug behind the spare blankets and pillows on the top shelf. There was a safe there and he pulled it towards himself, entering every combination he could think of. His father's spare gun was inside and he needed it. His own array of weapons were kept at the range and out of his reach.

The safe wouldn't open. No dates would work. No pin numbers, no letter combinations.

"Open!" he screamed, slamming on it with his fist. It didn't comply so he pulled it down and hauled it across the room. It landed against the wall, bursting through the plaster and sending several cracks up the paint, but remaining completely unscathed.

Ignoring it, he thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen. Wrapping the sharpest knife in a towel, he grabbed the keys to the car his parents hadn't taken, and left the house.

He pulled open the driver's side door to his father's sedan and got in, turning the ignition.

"I'm coming, little ninja," he whispered, "I'll be there."

When he pulled open the glovebox to stash his weapon, he found salvation.

Still in the holster, was Okita's gun.

xxxx

**Author's Notes**: I hope I'm doing an okay job with Soujiro. Considering his influence would be Okita, not Shishio, I wanted to change him accordingly, but at the same time, he's still pretty messed up. So. Hopefully I'm doing okay there.

Like I said, this one will be short, just a few chapters and probably isn't the Sou/Misao romance that you may have had in mind, but please consider my style of storytelling. =P

Feedback would be especially stellar here since this is uncharted territory for me in every aspect! :)


	2. Casualties

** Author's Note:** Thanks for giving this little fic a shot! I know its not what most people want, but I just have to get it out! Haha

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the official Rurouni Kenshin/Samurai X characters. I do reserve the rights to all OCs

**Between Right and Wrong .**02

"I'm so happy you were able to come out on such short notice!"

Saitou Tokio was beaming across the table at her friends and her husband Hajime was rolling his eyes. It was the fourth time in two weeks that she had dragged him to a suit and tie restaurant and the last time she had lamented over such a craving, it had been the Harada family, Sanosuke and Masa that had joined them.

Shousha laughed it off. "Ah, well, we're always available, you know that."

"Oh that's not true," Tokio protested, "you've been going off to Tokyo so much lately. I never know when you're home."

With a snort, Shousha wagged her finger at her. "Tokio, my brother is getting married. Of course I'm going to be there to oversee the wedding plans."

"You mean to plan the entire affair yourself," corrected Saitou.

She smiled. "Of course. He is my brother."

Okita threw his wife a rather sour look. He had no desire to be a part of this planning, but she absolutely refused to leave him home alone, so he was forced to travel with her. He didn't mind it so much; he loved seeing his mother and sisters so frequently, and he did think the bride was lovely, but sitting through_ one_ dinner with Katsura Kogoro was difficult enough. Three in a row every few weeks was killing him.

"Does Sou have a girlfriend yet?" Tokio asked. She asked this every time she saw them, which was roughly five out of the seven days of the week.

Okita grinned, "I was able to get him to admit that Misao-chan was pretty. Maybe we'll see some movement on that front soon."

Shousha sighed, "Oh they're just like _us_!" she said, wiggling in her seat.

"Lord I hope not," mumbled Saitou, earning him a reprimanding swat from his wife.

Saitou's phone buzzed and he checked it discreetly under the table before sighing. Tokio looked at him in question, and when he inhaled and slipped it into his pocket, her face fell.

"I've got to go," he said, then he nodded to Okita, "you too."

Okita furrowed his brow, "I'm not on call tonight."

"Don't worry," Tokio said, placing a loving hand on Saitou's arm, "Shou and I will catch a cab."

Shousha leaned forward into her wine glass. "Or we can go with them," she offered cheekily. It would be a grand adventure for them; the two artists hardly ever got to experience real police work.

The men looked to each other. They only had one vehicle at the moment. The Okitas had driven over to the Saitou household and they had carpooled from there. If it were a single homicide, they'd be done relatively quickly. There was no reason their wives couldn't just wait in the car.

The women had taken to the backseat, two ridiculous minds putting together all sorts of scenarios they could be coming up to.

"A call girl," suggested Tokio.

"A drug dealer who stiffed the wrong guy," Shousha decided.

"It's most likely a random act of violence, ladies," Okita cut in, "a mugging gone wrong, perhaps. It happens often."

"Oh you're no fun," Tokio pouted, "what happened to when you used to scheme with us?"

But Okita was in no mood for scheming. He had been requested, but he hadn't been paged. Both Hijikata and Kondo were sticklers for policy and routine when it came to work. Why wouldn't he have record of being requested?

When they pulled up to the scene, Tokio let out a small '_oh no_'.

"I hope it wasn't a student," she whispered to Shousha, who was also losing sight of the entertainment in her husband's job. They were at a high school. Soujiro's school.

They pulled up closer, finding an ambulance, three squad cars, and even Hijikata's vehicle. Forensics were there, but word hadn't yet reached the press.

Just before Saitou moved to park, Okita let out an expletive so loud and so vulgar that the women jumped in the back seat, as did Saitou, who slammed on the brakes. But Okita hadn't waited for the car to stop. He was already barreling towards the scene. Letting out a curse of his own, Saitou scanned the bodies.

"Oh fuck," he whispered, then cleared his throat, "stay in the car, ladies."

"But—"

"_Stay_ in the car, Tokio."

Shousha, however, was trembling. Not knowing what to do, Saitou turned in his seat and grabbed her hand. It was a gesture in reassurance, but he knew her. She had seen what Okita had seen and there was little he would be able to do to stop her hysteria.

Wrenching herself free, she nearly kicked open her door and burst from the car. At the same time, he exited, and, taking a few long strides to catch her, took hold of her wrist, pulling her back.

"_Go back_," he told her sternly, "we'll figure it out."

"Is that Soujiro?" she asked, pushing on his chest and craning her neck, eyes wild, "oh my God is that my little boy?"

He didn't need to answer. They both knew. Seated on a bench, handcuffed and guarded, was Soujiro. His eyes were downcast and he wasn't moving. There was blood on his school uniform and when Okita stepped towards him, he flinched.

"_NO_!" she screamed, voice cracking. Harada Sanosuke arrived then, and Saitou charged him with the task of keeping Shousha in check. He needed to information, to find out _exactly_ what had transpired here that would leave Soujiro under arrest. Surely he had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was a good kid. A little shaky like his mother, and too carefree like his father, but overall, a worthy son.

A good kid.

He located Hijikata, standing over the bloodied body of what looked like a delinquent student. The bullet wounds were the work of a perfect marksman. One between the eyes, one in the heart, another had blasted away the skull by his temple. Lastly, blood pooled around his groin and neither man had to question the shot.

"What happened?"

Hijikata didn't look up, but blinked slowly, as if the answer was obvious. "We have a homicide on our hands, inspector. We have the perpetrator in custody. There's little else to be said."

Saitou wasn't satisfied. "You honestly think Soujiro killed this kid?"

"Do you believe he didn't?"

The golden eyed wolf inhaled deeply and turned to the bench where Okita stood, ashen, and then to Shousha, desperately fighting Harada's hold, and screaming with crackling desperation, her voice rivaling any of the sirens present.

"_He's not a criminal_!" she cried, "_he's not a killer! He's my son! My little boy!_"

Each time she wailed, Soujiro grimaced. Each time, his face lit up in a twitchy smile as if he were finding some secret happy place. If he displayed a positive expression, he'd be invincible.

"There is evidence?"

Hijikata turned his steely emerald eyes up to his subordinate. "I'm afraid so. Too much of it."

Leaving the body, Hijikata made his way to his car. From a box on the hood, he lifted up a bag containing a handgun and Saitou blanched. It was Okita's. There was no mistaking it.

"We had to pry it from his hand," he said quietly. Stoic and oftentimes demonic, even Hijikata wasn't immune to the situation. Admitting Soujiro's guilt gutted him.

"And these—" he held up Okita's keys, "he stole his father's car."

"Last—" the third bag contained a kitchen knife, "—the courts will not overlook this. You and I both know the conclusions that will be drawn."

Saitou swallowed. Of course he knew the conclusions that would be drawn.

"Is there anything that might give him a chance?"

Hijikata's blank stare may have been unnerving to some, but Saitou was accustomed to it. It didn't mean good things or bad, he simply had to wait for the answer.

Reaching into the box, Hijikata pulled out another bag of evidence. "There is one thing."

Saitou accepted the bag, turning it over in his hands and furrowing his brow. He looked up, scanning the scene and his eyes came to rest on Misao. She was hunched over, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She wasn't crying, but like everyone else, she wasn't right.

"The Shinomori girl," Hijikata said quietly. "I've already spoken to her."

Shuddering inwardly, Saitou dropped the bag into the box, and rubbed his fingers together uneasily. Panties. That was their evidence that might save Soujiro.

He sighed. "A crime of passion then."

"He saved that girl."

While Saitou agreed that there was a very good chance that the only reason Soujiro had left the house tonight was to save his girlfriend, there was so much leveled against him, that detail seemed so small in comparison. His victim had been a classmate. A student. A child. And Soujiro didn't have a history of mental stability.

His mind was spinning; he stepped away, and towards Soujiro. Okita didn't look like he'd be conscious for much longer, though from shock or sickness, Saitou couldn't decipher. Shousha was still screaming.

Her grief was beyond his capacity now and she was on the ground, makeup mixing with tears as they ran in muddy streaks down her face. Her hair, done up in a sleek french knot for dinner, was sticking up in odd places, half of it hanging off her shoulder, pins scattered on the pavement around her. Her throat was raw and her voice cracked and rasped as she begged the police to release her son. Harada stood next to her. She was weakened and couldn't fight him any longer, but she still screamed on.

"Saitou-san?" It was a lower ranking officer, a uni, asking about the evidence.

"Log it," he snapped, "check with forensics for anything else."

Tokio had come out of the car, but knew better than to advance on the scene in her condition. She stood in the open door, knuckles white from gripping the metal.

"Make sure this doesn't reach the press," he added, raising his voice over the sirens.

Shinomori Aoshi had arrived, pulling his sister close to him. It was an action he spared for very few.

"Yes sir."

Shousha was still howling.

_Give me back my son! He's not a killer! He's my son! He's my __**son**__!_

Generally calm and rational, Saitou's irritation tipped.

"_And someone get me a _**fucking**_ Xanax_!"

A paramedic hurried over with the tablets and he shoved them at Harada. "Make sure she takes these. Shove them down her throat if you have to."

He'd have one of these doctors prescribe her a stronger sedative. If he could at least get her to sleep, they might be able to think come morning.

Okita still hadn't said a word to his son. He stood before him, not six inches away, but he was unable to come up with a single comment. Disappointment hit him before anger did. Then regret, and self blame. Soujiro didn't speak at first either. The heavy weight of his father's silence was slicing him slowly with precision as each second ticked by.

When he saw Aoshi coming, he wasn't afraid. When Misao fell into his arms, she sobbed into his long white trench coat. Soujiro had never seen her cry.

"He saved me, Aoshi. Soujiro saved my life."

Aoshi didn't say anything, but laid his hand atop her head.

Turning back to his father, Soujiro licked his bottom lip. He tasted blood and he shivered. "Dad..."

Okita's mouth was set in a thin line that didn't suit him. "_What_," he started, "were you thinking?"

"Dad, she called me for help. I was scared."

Closing his eyes, Okita inhaled deeply. "Why didn't you call the police? Why didn't you call _me_?"

Soujiro looked to the two burly police officers standing next to him. Okita understood, but showed no sign of sympathy.

"Anything you say to me is off the record Okita Soujiro. I am your father."

Even still, Soujiro didn't want to explain himself. It didn't matter what he said here. His father was furious; there would be no reasoning with him. Not that, he supposed, he could reason himself out of murder.

"I wasn't thinking," he said quietly, "I just... seeing him touching her... he was going to _kill_ her, dad. She was going to die."

"We have the law for a reason. The law is meant to be followed, not adjusted to our own sense of right and wrong."

Soujiro licked his lips. "I—I don't know what's right and wrong. I can't tell the difference."

"Yes," said Okita, sounding far too much like Saitou for chills _not_ to claw their way up the boy's spine, "that much is clear."

"I thought I could handle it," he admitted, "he's been bullying me since I was seven. I thought I was immune and—"

This was news to Okita and it surprised him. How had he kept silent for nine years?_ Why_ had he kept silent for nine years? He wanted to ask, to find out what secret cross his son had been carrying. It wasn't the right place, but he asked anyway.

Soujiro repeated himself. "I thought I could handle it. I didn't want to bother you with something like a bully. I didn't want to burden you."

"You didn't want to burden me." Okita's words were slow and careful, almost disbelieving. Soujiro looked at his mother, and when she reached out for him, he straightened up, and smiled at her, silently telling her everything would be alright.

Would everything be alright? It wasn't likely. From the way his father was starting down at him, arms crossed in silent fury, he doubted that he was about to start pulling strings for him. Soujiro hadn't expected to come out of this clean, and he was willing to admit that when he had arrived at the school with a pistol in his hand, repercussions were the furthest thing from his mind. He had no thoughts of being caught or not being caught. He wasn't thinking about his father's position or his mother's sanity.

All that mattered was Misao.

"I didn't want you to get involved," he offered, "he was just a punk."

When Okita spoke next, Soujiro's smile faded. He wasn't able to use it against his father and never had to. When they were together, he was free to be exactly who he was, without worry.

"I couldn't be anymore involved than I am right now."

Biting his lip, Soujiro closed his eyes and waited.

"My gun," he started, in a deadly even tone, "has become a murder weapon. My _government issued_ handgun, a tool I wield to protect the citizens of our city, has been used to end the life of a student. Do you have any idea what this means?"

Okita didn't wait for his son to answer.

"What do you think the courts will say? What do you think will become of my job? Of my position? They'll take this evidence and wonder why I had left it in such an accessible place, why I allowed it to fall into the hands of someone like you."

_Someone like you._

His fathers words echoed in Soujiro's head and slashed at his heart. Never before had he been considered anything less than normal, dangerous, or in any other way a deviation from society. He knew that Okita was simply speaking out of anger, but the pain it brought forth caused his lips to tip up and a small laugh to come forth.

"Don't do that," Okita scolded, giving Soujiro's cheeks a couple small, yet reprimanding smacks, "people will think you're crazy."

"You already do," he replied miserably.

Okita sighed and avoided the topic, gesturing to Shousha who was now clinging to Harada's forearms and desperately trying to explain to him that Soujiro was a good boy.

"Soujiro. The day I became your father I asked one thing of you."

"To ensure mother's happiness," he whispered in reply. He knew it. He never forgot it.

Okita's face fell as he watched his wife crumble before them. "Look at her, Soujiro," he said softly, "look at what you've done to her."

Soujiro grit his teeth. What else was he supposed to have done? Let his best friend die? Let her be tortured? Raped? Body thrown at his doorstep?

His imagination went on and he began to feel an ache in his shoulders from the handcuffs. He couldn't explain himself here. He couldn't express what he wanted to say, so he'd accept it. He was going to jail and as much as that scared him, he thought perhaps it would be a much better place to sleep tonight than his house.

Saitou appeared before him, but despite his prickly nature, he seemed much calmer than his father, as if he had been caught shoplifting, not killing.

"I'm going home," said Okita, brushing past Saitou who nodded, and not saying another word to his son.

When the wolf turned his steely gaze to him, Soujiro straightened again, but didn't bother with a grin. Instead, he waited for the older man to speak first.

"Put him in a holding cell," he told the two guards, his voice a booming authority, "we'll deal with him tomorrow."

"But—"

Saitou leveled his gaze to the subordinate who was words away from protesting his orders. "He is a minor. I will deal with him in the morning."

Unable to protest, the two men hoisted Soujiro to his feet and pushed him towards their cruiser.

"Wait!"

It was Misao.

Coming out from beneath her brother's coat, she dashed forward, thrusting her arms out for the officers to stop. Without waiting for them to do so, she flung her arms around Soujiro's neck, burying her face in his shoulder. He smiled into her hair and when she pulled away, she planted two hands on his cheeks and kissed him.

Aoshi raised a curious brow.

"I won't let them keep you!" she hissed, "I'll bust you out myself if I have to."

Hand on her shoulder, Saitou eased her back and Soujiro continued his march to captivity.

"I'll keep kicking ass until you're free!" she shouted, "I won't let them keep you!"

Everyone believed her.

**xxxx**

At the Okita household, Shousha had exhausted herself. Dependent upon the medication she had been drowning herself in, she was passed out on her bed, dead to everything except her dreams. She had a history of drug abuse at times of loss and Tokio had taken it upon herself to make sure her friend kept within the appropriate guidelines of the prescription.

Give or take.

Okita sat at the kitchen counter with his head in his arms, and Saitou was beside him, offering up his rationale.

"Where did I go wrong?" Okita wondered, lifting his head and staring at his hands. "How did I fuck up this badly?"

He should never haven taken his gun off. He should have gone back for it once the dog was safe inside. But he hadn't. He hadn't because he had no reason to believe his son would be in his car. He hadn't because his son never showed the slightest bit of violent tendencies. He hadn't because he never considered things might go badly.

Saitou sighed, wishing he had stopped for liquor. Beer, at least. This house was completely devoid of alcohol at the request of Soujiro ten years ago.

"You didn't fuck up," he said, pulling out a cigarette and sliding it between his lips, reaching for a match, "You just aren't perfect. It's called fatherhood and I welcome you to it."

Okita watched his friend strike the match and pursed his lips. "None of your children are murderers."

Saitou shook out the flame and took a drag, turning his head to exhale. "Neither of my boys has the quick thinking it would take to save a life either."

With his oldest being only eight years old, this was a point Okita couldn't argue.

"I know that his intentions were good," he admitted, "but it was wrong. It was so wrong."

"Was it?"

Okita narrowed his eyes. "We are men of the law, Hajime. Don't try to justify his crime."

Saitou shrugged, and stood, pulling open a drawer and retrieving the small bowl he often used as an ashtray. "Sou, when your father died, what was the code we vowed to live by?"

"Justice," came Okita's resolute answer. "A swift death to evil."

Returning to his seat, Saitou held his cigarette between his fingers and gave his tired friend a once-over. When Okita said nothing, the wolf turned his gaze to the wall, where dozens of family photos were framed.

"You and I weren't cut out for the vigilante life."

Okita bristled, but Saitou cut in before he could speak.

"A swift death to evil, that is what I believe in," he said harshly. Then, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette, he added quietly, "I don't care how."

Still, Okita wasn't convinced. Perhaps it wasn't so much the crime, but the fact that his own son, his pride, the joy of his entire being, had taken a life. The scared little boy that he had saved from a lifetime of solitude, had done what he, a professional, couldn't imagine doing.

If it had been a simple crime of passion, a panicked move to save his friend, then he could dismiss it as an accident and implore the courts to do the same. But how could he? Soujiro had shot that boy four times. Four perfect shots. It didn't matter which of the three fatal wounds had killed him first, his son had fired again, and again. He knew his aim was impeccable. What need would he have had to shoot a second, third, fourth time?

The truth was that Soujiro wasn't healed. He wasn't miraculously cured of his demons, and that Okita had been unable to see that nearly killed him. Or perhaps it wasn't that he hadn't seen it, but that he hadn't wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that he had become super dad. If he fooled himself into thinking that his son was just the same as everyone else, they could be happy.

What a selfish choice he had made. What a fool he had been. His own wife, an adult, battled her past every day. He had lived it beside her. If she couldn't shed it, why had he thought a child would have been changed so quickly?

"Okita."

Coming out of his self-pitying musings, Okita rubbed his face. "What."

Saitou dropped the edge in his voice, and put down his smoke. "Shinomori's sister is alive because of your son. Don't overlook that."

"Still," said Okita, sighing and lowering his head back onto the counter, "I could have taught him better."

**xxxx**

**Author's Notes:** Next chapter we'll see exactly what transpired and also, just how crazy Shousha is, which is always a good time. I really plan to tip the scale with her here.

Writing angry!Okita was a real challenge since we never actually see him angry, and I don't think I've reached that point with him in any of my other fics.

Tell me your thoughts! :D


	3. Crooked Dealings

**Author's Note:** Soujiro is out of his mind. Shousha is out of her mind. I'm out of my mind.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the official Rurouni Kenshin/Samurai X characters. I do reserve the rights to all OCs

**Between Right and Wrong .**03

When Soujiro had pulled out of the driveway, his mind was little more than flashes of memory and worst case scenarios. He thought his thoughts were in order; they seemed to be as he pulled up to the school, entirely focused on playing prince charming to his damsel in distress.

It wasn't likely he would need to use the gun he had donned on the drive here. He could use it to scare the kidnapper. His confidence behind a weapon alone would be enough to make a man reconsider. He was remarkably like his father in that way, something he prided himself in.

_ That kid could be a killer_, they joked at the gun club. _A government assassin_.

Okita had tossed them all dissatisfied glances and with a lightly reprimanding tone had assured them his son would make an excellent police officer, should he choose that path.

But now that deadly aura he possessed was something Soujiro was relying on.

It was silent when he stepped out of the car and he was thankful for that. He listened, ears alert, and eyes adjusting to the darkness, trying to pick up any sign of Misao or the person who had taken her. When he approached the gate, a figure moved in the shadows and he froze not out of fear, but defense.

"Look who's here."

Soujiro inhaled sharply. It was Keisuke and sure enough, trapped but struggling with her neck fastened in the crook of his arm, was Misao.

"Let her go," Soujio said evenly, "your quarrel is with me."

"Your quarrel is with me?" Keisuke sneered, laughing, "drop the yuppie speak, Soujiro and come at me like a man."

"You don't want that," he said, the corners of his mouth turning up at his warning. He turned to Misao, "are you alright?"

She nodded and gave him a thumbs up. He reciprocated the motion and when a streetlight popped on, he saw Keisuke's face illuminated in the orange glow. It was a disaster. His nose was bloodied and broken, his left eye swollen shut, and when he spit, there was blood in his saliva. She had put up a good fight, but it was unfortunate for her that Keisuke was still stronger.

No, he wasn't stronger. He was reckless and he was ruthless. Misao studied martial arts, where discipline and respect were rooted in her core. Soujiro rather doubted the thug before him could even define discipline and respect. Misao was graceful and artful in combat.

Keisuke had pulled a gun on her.

Coupled with the fact that the little ninja had only been training a few short years, realistically, she hadn't stood a chance against the boy who had been fighting to survive his entire life.

"Come at me," he repeated, "or else I'll make good on my threat."

"What threat?" Soujiro asked. He'd been threatened so many times he hadn't had the chance to catalogue them all properly.

With a sneer, Keisuke's free hand helped itself to Misao's chest, giving each one of her breasts a squeeze before he clucked his tongue.

"Disappointing."

In a flash, Soujiro whipped out his pistol, cocking it, and aiming directly at Keisuke's forehead. The panic that had shot through Misao's eyes at the perverted touch would remain with him until he died. He couldn't let anything happen to her. He _wouldn't_ let anything happen to her. She was too important to him, too innocent of terror. He wanted her to stay pure forever.

She gnashed her teeth, trying to bite at the arm that kept her firmly in place.

"_Let. Her. Go._" Soujiro's voice had dropped an octave, his stance ready, prepared to make one shot. His eyes were cold, his jaw was set.

He had taken the bait.

"I knew it," Keisuke scoffed, spitting out some more blood, "I knew you'd snap. Daddy won't love you anymore if you pull that trigger, you know."

"Leave my father out of this," he snapped.

"You're crazy."

"I'm not crazy," Soujiro said with confidence, "I came here to save my best friend. You're the lunatic who baited me by kidnapping her. You're the one who is so _obsessed_ with me."

Triggered by his classmate's assumption, Keisuke reached underneath Misao's skirt and yanked down her panties, punching her in the stomach as she screamed.

"Shut up, you little bitch!" he barked, tossing the underwear away from them.

Soujiro was frozen. This time, it _was_ fear that gripped him. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He watched the big, dirty and calloused hand snake around her thighs and upwards towards a place she protected above all else and he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger.

_Shoot him!_ His brain screamed. _Stop him! Kill him!_

But he couldn't.

Keisuke stopped, flashing a bloodied grin. "What's wrong Sou? Dick ain't big enough to pull the trigger? Son of a cop, ain'tcha?"

"S-stop it," he whispered, pleading, "leave her alone."

Where was his courage? His anger, his passion? Why couldn't he summon any of the bravado that had fueled his journey over here? Why wouldn't his feet move? He could at least beat Keisuke with his bare hands, or even use the gun as a blunt object. Why couldn't he just _move_?

Misao was still trying to catch her breath from the blow that she had received, and stared at him with urgently pleading eyes._ Save me_, they said. He wanted to. More than anything he wanted to save her. He needed to save her because she had saved _him_.

"I don't think you want me to let her go," Keisuke said with a sardonic laugh, "I think you're _enjoying_ this. You're a sick fucker, you know that?" he shrugged, sliding his hand up her shirt, "but you know, they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"_Shut up_."

"You're just like your old man. He whored his women out too, didn't he? Your mother was a diseased little whore, and your girlfriend is going to be just like her. Since you're not man enough—" he flipped up the back of Misao's skirt. "—I'll go first."

He grinned.

"I think you might enjoy this more than me."

The small hitch in her breath mixed with the raw terror in her eyes broke Soujiro's trance and in one fluid motion, he lowered his aim and pulled the trigger. He watched the bullet sail through the air, marveled at his expertise as it missed her leg by a mere breath, and embedded itself into Keisuke's groin.

He howled, screamed, and collapsed to the ground. Misao hit the pavement, scraping her arms and knees, but crawled away swiftly, allowing Soujiro to pull her into his arms.

"I'm sorry," he breathed into her hair, "I'm so sorry. I'm so _sorry_."

"It's okay," she assured him, "I'm not hurt. I'm not hurt."

He held her as tightly as he held the pistol in his grip, shaking and muttering unending apologies. He should have been faster. He should have been stronger, more responsive. Instead, fear had taken him and he had nearly been too late.

Amidst the agonizing cry of his peer, a gunshot rang out, one that hadn't come from him, and Misao jumped, letting out a scream. He pulled her back, hurriedly looking over her, and when he saw that the bullet had only grazed her arm, he nearly sighed in relief. He could tend to that easily.

"Let's go," he whispered, helping her up, "I'll take care of you and we'll have my dad deal with his guy later."

"Yeah," she agreed, standing on shaking legs, "yeah, let's go."

But Keisuke wasn't through.

"**FUCK** _YOU, SETA_!" he screamed, "_FUCK YOU_!"

Soujiro stopped dead in his tracks. Misao stiffened beside him, feeling the tension rippling through his body.

"I'm not a Seta anymore," he whispered, his voice trembling.

"I know," she said, "You're an Okita, and a damn good one."

Her words went unheard and when he turned, she closed her eyes for a single second, sending up a prayer to whomever might be listening. She turned then, and took a few steps forward, closing her hand around his wrist. They were standing next to the screaming Keisuke. He was curled up with his dirty hands between his legs, shaking, sweating, and cursing them both to their graves.

"I'm not a Seta," Soujiro said, his mouth flicking up and down in an unsteady rhythm of smiling. "I'm an Okita."

"Your mother isn't even an Okita," Keisuke spat, "she's Yamata trash and she always will be. Stop clinging to something you can't have."

"I'm _not_ a Seta."

Breathing heavily, Keisuke looked up at him. "A Seta," he ground out, "until the day you die."

_ Bang!_

With the sharp crack of the gun, his head fell back, smashing against the pavement, a bullet hole between his eyes.

Misao stopped breathing.

"I'm not a Seta," Soujiro repeated, shooting him again, directly in the heart.

"_Stop it,_" she pleaded, tugging on his left arm, "Look at him. He's dead, Sou."

Ignoring her, he crouched down, inadvertently pulling her down with him, and placed the weapon directly at Keisuke's pulseless temple. Misao squeezed her eyes closed, gripping his strong arm with both of her hands and shoved her head into his school jacket. She didn't want to see it. She didn't want to hear it.

But she felt it.

Blood splattered across her arm and her bare legs and she whimpered. She could hear the rattling of Soujiro's breath through his lungs as he remained crouched there, unmoving. She heard his final pained whisper.

"I'm not a Seta."

And then she heard the sirens.

xxxx

Okita hadn't slept.

He had received a phone call from Hijikata early in the morning and with it came both condolences for the circumstances his family was under at the present time and a request that he take a leave of absence while details were sorted out. It didn't sit well with him, but he knew it was for his own protection, so he took it without a fuss.

When he finally managed to pull himself away from the kitchen counter, he made his way up to his bedroom. He was the head of the household. He had to be strong for the frail souls he had vowed to protect. He had failed with his son, but he would not fail with his wife.

She wasn't in bed, which was a sign that she was at least conscious somewhere.

He hoped.

He found her in Soujiro's room, curled up on his bed, clutching a Buzz Lightyear plush to her chest. It had been his favourite when he was younger.

Okita inhaled quietly and swallowed, lowering himself onto the bed and softly stroking her hair.

"Are you alright?"

She opened her eyes, red and swollen, but didn't look at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but her eyes welled up with tears, and she began to sob, squeezing the toy for comfort.

"It's always us," she squeaked, hiccuping and coughing, "why is it always us? Why do terrible things always happen to _us_?"

He wished he knew. He wished he could disagree. He wished many things, but wishing wouldn't do either of them any good.

"I'm staying home for a couple of weeks," he offered, wiping her cheeks of the tears that continued to roll down, "you don't have to be alone."

She sat up, scooting back and resting against the cerulean wall and threw him a watery smile. "You aren't in trouble, are you?"

He joined her, linking their hands, and resting his head on her shoulder. He was so exhausted.

"I don't know," he told her honestly, "Hijikata-san didn't say much, and I didn't ask."

He let out a small cough and he could feel her tense beneath him. Giving her hand a small squeeze, he assured her that he was fine.

He wouldn't relapse. Not here. Not now.

"We weren't meant to be parents," she said resolutely, "I'm certain of it."

"Don't say that," he chastised, "we're going to get through this together, just like we always have."

She was crying again, and despite their current predicament, her presence was soothing to him and he felt his eyes finally growing heavy.

"I just want to see him again," she whispered shakily, "I just want to talk to him."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Shou," he murmured, moving himself under their arms and resting his head on her thighs. He would sleep here. Finally.

Shousha looked down at her husband and watched him fall asleep. He deserved it. He was always standing strong for her, and for Soujiro. He took on everyone's burdens, sacrificing all of himself in the process. His cheeks were drawn again and she felt her heart break. Seeing him wither before her eyes had been more than she had been able to handle and she knew that she wouldn't be able to endure it again.

Slipping out from beneath him, she covered him in several blankets and as she knelt before him, she kissed his knuckles.

"I'm going to bring him home, Soushi," she promised, a near silent whisper.

Grabbing her purse from its place on the counter, she stole from the house and headed to the station. Unlike her son the night before, she _knew_ she wasn't fit to drive. It was a miracle she arrived unscathed.

Standing at the entrance of the police station, she was shaking and her heart was pounding. Her throat was swelling, telling her she couldn't do it. She couldn't walk through those doors.

Yes, yes she could.

Using her knee as support, she dug through her bag and pulled out an orange bottle of pills. Throwing one back, she nodded. Just one. She just needed one.

To calm her down.

Generally received with warm smiles and high fives, Shousha was met only with sympathetic stares and dropped jaws when she walked into the homicide department. When Saitou saw her, he turned away. He knew why she was here and he wasn't about to stop her. Harada pulled her into an embrace.

"I'm sorry, little miss," he said, his brotherly frame enveloping her tiny body, "Masa and I are rootin' for him, kay?"

She nodded. "I've got to see Kondo-sama."

While she continued her walk, Shinomori Aoshi watched her from his desk. Though he was relatively new on the force, only about two years into homicide, he knew her as well as the rest of the men in the room and he knew that what was about to transpire would be ugly.

He wanted to thank her. He had taken his sister to the hospital after Soujiro had been arrested and the exam revealed that she had not been damaged in any way other than a few bruises she had obtained in her resistance and the small bullet scrape. Aoshi wasn't the sort of man to express his emotions outwardly, but the gratitude he was feeling towards Soujiro at the moment was difficult to measure.

He knew he wasn't the most attentive brother, but that didn't make the love for his sister any less real. That someone had risked their life, reputation, and future to protect her deserved his respect, even if it would come from the other side of prison bars.

The door to Kondo's office closed and he waited. They all waited.

"Kondo-sama."

Chief Inspector Kondo Isami looked up from the paperwork he had been pretending to work on. Once he had caught word that Shousha was in the building, he had been counting the seconds that passed before she would appear before him.

"I know why you're here, Shousha," he sighed, lifting himself up from his chair and closing the blinds. No one else needed to witness the tantrum that was about to unfold.

Emotion began to well up in her throat again and Shousha knew she wasn't ready for this. But she was here and she had to do it.

"I need my boy," she whimpered, "I need him to be home with me."

Mouth set in a firm line, Kondo stared ahead at her. He liked her. He was exceedingly fond of her, but she had demons that were eating her alive and she wasn't strong enough to fight them. It was the demons that he hated.

"Are you sober, Shousha?"

She sniffed and raised her chin defiantly. "For now."

He studied her for a moment, testing her to decipher whether or not she was lying. Finally, he reached out his arm, making a beckoning gesture with his hand.

"Your bag."

Shousha took a step back, challenging him, but decided she'd get nowhere if she didn't cooperate, so with a huff, she tossed the handbag onto his desk. Kondo pulled it towards him, unzipping the main pouch and sifting around for a few seconds before pulling out a prescription bottle.

"Xanax," he noted. Then he pulled out another and added, "Zoloft."

"There's nothing else of interest to you in there," she said, crossing her arms. He didn't respond, but read the labels.

"These aren't prescribed to you."

She shrugged, "I could be interested in worse things."

"These are from Tokyo," he told her, his normally paternal and worn, yet smiling face set in a deep, disappointed frown. "I see your brother is still feeding your destructive habits."

Shousha set her jaw. "They're for anxiety and depression. Hardly detrimental to my health."

He understood why she relied on the pills. She did have an anxiety disorder and according to her medical records, she always had. The medication for anxiety set her into a deep depression and she needed something for balance. For a woman in her position: wealthy, abused, and bored, he understood that there was a level of drug abuse that was socially acceptable. Fashionable, even.

"_If_ prescribed to you," he said forcefully. "_If_ taken as advised by your _doctor_."

"This isn't about me," she snapped, "I'm here for Soujiro, and I'm not leaving until you release him."

Kondo raised a bushy brow and gestured to the pills on his desk. "Even if I could release him, I don't think you are fit to take him home."

Insult flashed through her features and she bristled. He hated to be so harsh with her, but there were few ways to get through to her when she was in such a panicked state.

"Are you telling me that you don't find me fit to be a mother?"

"You lied on your adoption application, Shousha," he said calmly, "you _lied_."

"I didn't lie," she said, standing up straight, "they asked me if I had ever been convicted of a felony. I've never been arrested."

"Then you lied to him."

These were underhanded comments, below the belt blows, but he doubted even Okita would disapprove of them. She was an uncontrollable creature when she was frightened and if she wasn't properly tranquilized, she would destroy everything in her path.

"I didn't," she whispered, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, "I never lied to my son."

"He asked you if you took drugs—"

"I didn't!" she screamed, "I was three years clean when we took him home!" She had her hands wrapped around herself and he watched as she made rapid scratching movements at her side. She eyed the bottles. She needed medication.

"Then what happened to you?" he challenged, his deep voice coming above hers in a roar. "Tell me why you sit around in a catatonic state when things don't go your way!"

"STOP IT!"

With her hands over her ears, she collapsed to the ground, screaming. She wasn't a bad person. She wasn't a drug addict. She just didn't know how to deal with... life.

Kneeling beside her, Kondo put a strong arm around her shoulder and offered her a tissue. "Go home, Shousha. The best thing you can do for Soujiro is to go home."

"I'm not leaving, Kondo," she breathed, wiping her eyes and sitting back in a chair by the window, "I won't leave this room without my son."

The chief stood. "This is a matter of the law, Shousha. I will allow the law to deal with it."

"You are the law," she taunted.

"I am a servant of the law," he murmured, settling back at his desk, "nothing more."

"So you won't help me."

"There is nothing to help, you know that. Soujiro committed a crime. I won't show favourtism."

For a few minutes, Shousha sat there with her knuckles against her lips, contemplating his words. He thought she might concede. Perhaps she had taken the proper amount of medication and she was settling into rationality.

Ha.

"You are aware of my family's position in this country," she said lowly, her brown eyes set firmly on his face. "You know how powerful we are."

Returning her gaze, he folded his hands together. "I have confidence you are not trying to blackmail me, Shousha." His tone was set in a deadly warning, but she hardly flinched. Instead, she stood and with two palms firmly on the wooden desktop, she glowered down at him.

"I could destroy everything you've ever worked for," she hissed, "I could have your entire family begging on the streets."

Just as unfazed by her threats as she was by his, he pulled an envelope towards him and slid out some paperwork. "Stop talking, Shousha. You sound like your mother."

In one vicious sweep of her arm, all the contents of the desk crashed to the floor, along with the two pill bottles that rolled along the carpet, stopping at the door. They both looked at them, and when Shousha made no move to retrieve them, he made no scathing comment.

"What if he didn't do it?" she asked, "What if he's innocent?"

There was a hysteria in her voice that Kondo didn't like. "Do not do this to me, Shousha. Do not lose yourself in my office."

"Have you even asked him? Did anyone even ask _Soujiro_ what happened?"

There would be no reasoning with her at this point, so he remained silent, clicking open his pen to attempt the paperwork that he knew he couldn't concentrate on. When he didn't rise to her questions, her shoulders fell.

"Please," she whispered.

It was a plea that nearly broke his heart.

"You don't understand," she went on, still staring at the medication that wasn't hers, "I need him."

The anger and the tension that had so thickly filled the room dissipated and Kondo rubbed his face with his hands. He suddenly felt very old, and too tired to be in this line of work anymore. The range of emotions that had been displayed over this twenty minute period was more vast than anything he had ever experienced before.

She was shaking, and her arms were hugging her torso, her fingernails back to their strange scratching at her blouse.

"I can't lose him," she breathed, her voice trembling as she clawed herself for composure. "I lost my parents' love. I lost a baby. I lost my ability to conceive."

"I know," came the paternal whisper of the man behind the desk.

"Last year, I watched my husband, the only person who had been by my side my entire life, the only person who has ever _loved me_, fall to his deathbed." As the tears leaked from her eyes and she shuddered as her sobs wracked her shoulders, her voice cracked and squeaked, "Even my dog is dying."

Kondo waited with sympathetic eyes. She wasn't a horrible person, she really wasn't. It wasn't her fault that her dice always landed the opposite of what she called. He didn't find it fair; there were few people that did, but there was a distinct difference between right and wrong, and it was his job to uphold it.

Wasn't it?

"I... I _can't_ lose Soujiro," she whimpered, "I won't survive."

"Shousha.."

She turned, inhaling deeply and picking up one of the trays she had knocked over.

"I know I wasn't the mother he needed me to be when Soushi was sick. I know how selfish I was. But I can be the mother he needs _now_. He's just a boy, Kondo-sama. He's a hero."

Finally, he put down the pen. "What would you have me do?"

"Destroy the evidence," she suggested, "lose it, I don't care. I'll give you anything, everything you desire for as long as you live."

"There are witnesses, Shousha, you know this," he said, his voice a desperate plea to make her understand.

"I can take care of them," she said, "or Saitou Yuusuke. He jumps at the chance to be of use to my family, to be considered in our good graces."

It was a fact that Kondo couldn't deny. Saitou Yuusuke, a lowly, but wealthy syndicate thug, Saitou Hajime's father, was little more than a dog drooling before the juicy bone that was the Yamata family. He thrived on climbing the social ladder and appearing bigger, and more important than he really was.

"Does the boy have family?"

Kondo was surprised at her earnest, perhaps even compassionate question, and shook his head. "His father's been imprisoned for about eight years now, not that he was ever around when he was on the streets."

"Then I will fund the funeral. It will be proper, and he will have wanted for nothing."

"Someone will want justice," the chief reminded her, "even the lowest of the low have friends."

Shousha shrugged. "Another job for Yuusuke. I imagine his enemies are men your department would love to see behind bars."

Though he wasn't entirely fond of the concept of a back door deal, the image of Okita's face if he should come home to find his wife dead at her own hand was even less appealing. From what he had heard, she'd made several attempts on her life before. When Okita spoke of it, his face became twitchy and nervous, much like that of his son. It never sat right with Kondo.

He picked up the office phone.

"I want you in therapy," he said gruffly, "all three of you."

She nodded and with a heavy sigh, he ordered Soujiro to be brought up from the holding cell he had spent the night in. He set a hefty bail and slipped a figure to Shousha, his budget for the funeral arrangements.

"I'll have hospital paperwork set up for him," he added as she clutched his arms, sputtering thanks through her tears, "keep him at home until the year ends. I don't want to see him enter that school ever again."

He'd have to work hard over the break between school years in order to catch up from the facade of illness, but once he was moved to a new school, he'd have nothing to worry about.

She left the office then and Kondo sat at his desk with a sigh, wondering just when he had become so crooked. His eyes fell then to a photo frame on the floor, one that had toppled over during Shousha's hurricane of emotion and as he picked it up, he saw his two teenage daughters smiling up at him. They were at the beach.

They were good girls, obedient, creative and filled with joy. What would he have done if one of them had been in Misao's shoes last night? Or Soujiro's?

Setting the photo back in its place, he decided that perhaps he wasn't so crooked after all. He was just a parent and he would have done exactly what Shousha had done.

Outside, Shousha was met with curious stares, and the averted eyes of those who were curious, but terrified of her. She hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder, and even though the pills weighed almost nothing, it felt so empty without the medication she toted around day in and day out.

When the door opened and Soujiro stepped in, free of handcuffs, everyone went back to work.

She cried out to him, running over and pulling him close, stroking his hair and crying into his shoulder. In response, he smiled and rubbed her back.

"It's alright," he whispered, "we're going home, okay?"

The drive home was spent in contented silence. Soujiro, happy to be free of prison and the thought of a trial, and Shousha relieved that she had managed to save what was going to be left of her life. They stepped into the house, and even though Soujiro wanted nothing more than to sleep, he took his mother's purse, and put it away on the counter with a grin.

"Where's dad?"

"Sleeping," she replied with a smile, "he was exhausted."

Except Okita wasn't asleep. He had been, for the duration of her trip, but when he heard the car in the drive, he had sat upright. Seeing that Shousha wasn't home, he made his way downstairs. She had gone to see Soujiro. He knew she had. When he reached the landing and saw both his wife and his son in the kitchen, he felt the anger from the previous night rising.

Shousha saw him first and her eyes lit up with joy. "Soushi! I rescued him!"

She was so proud of what she had accomplished and Okita hated himself for resenting her for it. For a moment, he ignored her and with crossed arms, looked towards his son.

Soujiro knew he was still angry. He could sense it. "Dad," he started, "I know... I know I let you down, but—"

"Go upstairs."

The command was simple, sort, and filled with more venom than either of them knew he was capable of. He turned his gaze back to his wife who began to shrink back.

"Aren't you happy?" she asked, her words small and deflated when she saw that he clearly wasn't.

Soujiro backed up, his footsteps silent on the tile before they connected with the decorative rug at the bottom of the stairs. He didn't want to disobey his father, but he didn't want to leave his mentally fragile mother alone either. He knew she wouldn't be hit or screamed at, but he also knew how he would find her after their argument was over.

"What did you do, Shousha? How did you get him here?"

She hated the way he was looking at her. He was disgusted. "Soushi, he doesn't belong there. He's not a criminal!"

"What did you _do_?"

"Kondo-sama set bail," she replied weakly.

Okita sighed, tugging the elastic out of his hair and snapping it onto his wrist. "After what type of theatrics?" he demanded, shaking out his hair in preparation to return it to its typical tail, mussed by his nap, "screaming? A panic attack? Were you even sober?"

Sousha's eyes flashed and she dug her nails into the flesh of her own arm. "Why does everyone ask me that!" she cried, reaching for her bag and tossing it at him. He made no effort to catch it and the contents spilled before his feet.

"Kondo took them," she hissed, "I had one. _One_."

He believed her. She was panicky and angry right now. When she was under the influence, she flip flopped between lethargic and giddy, joking at things that weren't funny, and showing no interest in anything that would produce a reaction from someone sane.

"Okay," he said, giving his hair a quick pull to tighten it, "calm down."

"Kondo-sama set bail," she repeated, "it doesn't matter what strings I had to pull or who I had to involve."

From his position crouched on the floor returning her things to her bag, Okita looked up. "Who did you involve?"

"Yuusuke," she muttered.

Any of the calm and understanding he may have gained in the last few minutes crumbled when he heard the name.

"_Saitou_ Yuusuke, Shousha?! You've brought the syndicate into this?" He had expected her to go _visit_ Soujiro. He had expected her to come home a disaster. He had been ready to be her rock.

The fact that she had gone behind his back and entered into a deal with criminals in order to set free a criminal was beyond his comprehension.

She gave him a hopeful smile, "He's our son, Sou. I did what I had to."

"No," he said, brushing past her and pulling his keys off the hook he hung them from, "I won't be a part of this."

"Where are you going?" she asked, gripping his arm, her eyes wild and terrified as she pulled him away from the door.

"I'm going to Tokyo," he said icily, "I need to think."

"No!" she cried, tugging him back, "Don't leave me! Oh God please don't leave me!"

With a firm hand, he pried her fingers from his arm. "I'll say hello to Kogoro for you."

"_No_!" she screamed, but she fell to her knees when she grasped for his body and was met with nothing but spring air and a slammed front door.

At the top of the stairs, Soujiro watched the display and clutched his knees to his chest, as his mother's desperate begging echoed throughout their home's vaulted ceilings. His face lit up in a hauntingly defensive smile, and as his cheeks began to feel sore at the motion, he felt his entire life collapse around him.

xxxx

**Author's Note: **I can say with confidence that this is the first of all my pieces ever that makes me genuinely uncomfortable as I write it. I think that's awesome. It makes me feel like all my other fics are filled with mushy happy idyllic scenarios (most of you will disagree, I know) so having something so raw as this has set me in a very happy place indeed.

Angry!Okita really makes me want to cry. I've given up on Misao because I just can't grasp her in an AU scenario, so in future chapter(s?) please excuse her. Shousha, however, is a beast I am exceedingly happy with. She's falling fast off a cliff into a pit of spikes, a risk, I know. Considering her background though, I don't see it as an unrealistic turn of events.

Enough out of me! Tell me your deepest thoughts! :O


	4. Aftermath

**Author's Note: **I got nothin'

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the official Rurouni Kenshin/Samurai X characters. I do reserve the rights to all OCs

**Between Right and Wrong **.04

For three quarters of an hour Soujiro watched his mother sobbing and wailing on the cold tile of the foyer and he couldn't find it in himself to move. For the first time in ten years, he began to doubt the sanity of his parents. He had committed a most grievous sin and instead of blaming him, they were blaming each other.

This wasn't to say either of them were particularly _happy_ with what he'd done. The memory of his mother's pleading at the crime scene wouldn't be quickly forgotten, and Okita had been particularly cold with him, but neither of them had punished him directly.

It didn't make sense to him. Wouldn't it just have been easier for his father to pull the belt from his trousers and give him a solid thrashing? Shousha's fingernails were long and sharp. Certainly she could have slapped him for his wrongdoings. Surely she would have made him bleed.

Instead, she was hurting herself.

He padded down the stairs, quietly, and cautious not to frighten her. Crouching before her, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder and she quieted. The vice grip she had on her own arms subsided and Soujiro grimaced at the ten tiny blood spots on her sleeves from where her fingernails had broken her flesh.

"Come on," he whispered, helping her up and into the living room. Trembling, she lowered herself to the couch and he flicked a nervous smile at her.

"I'll get you a new shirt," he offered, "and some bandages."

Shousha nodded, her face devoid of expression, eyes swollen and cheeks stained with the shiny trail left behind by her tears.

With a careful exhale, Soujiro took the stairs two at a time, making his way down the hall to his parents' bedroom. He stepped into his mother's oversized walk-in closet and pulled a simple black tank top from its hanger, rummaged through the bathroom for some first aid, and returned to the living room.

When she had donned her new shirt, he took her white blouse, holding it in the air for a moment and determining whether or not he could remove the stains himself, but then tossed it onto the stairs, deciding it would be easier for everyone if he just took it to the cleaners.

Shousha scooted over a bit, allowing for her son to sit beside her with his trademark smile of reassurance, and tend to her self inflicted wounds.

"This is stupid," she hissed as he dabbed bacitracin cream around the injury. He didn't look up; if he did, she would lose it. "I should be taking care of you."

"I _like_ taking care of you," he pressed, wrapping a layer of gauze around her arm, "I owe you everything."

"I'm a horrible mother," she confessed, her jaw wobbling and distorting the words that she spoke. Soujiro ripped off a piece of medical tape, praying he'd be able to secure the first bandage before she gave into her emotions.

"You're not," he whispered, "you're the best mother I could have asked for."

She looked up, her mouth desperate to tilt up into a smile of appreciation. Instead, it betrayed her, and as she glanced at her son, she saw only Okita.

"He's not coming back, Soujiro," she whimpered, tears spilling out from her eyes as she did her best to keep her composure, "h-he, he _hates_ us!"

He gathered her into his arms as she collapsed, howling into his shoulder, professing her love for him, and justifying her actions.

_I couldn't let you stay there!_

_ You're my little boy!_

_ I love you, Soujiro._

"He'll come back," he told her softly, rubbing her back and concentrating on keeping his own breathing calm, "he won't leave us forever. He's not like that."

But the truth was, Soujiro didn't know if his father was or wasn't like that. He'd never killed someone before, and Shousha had never blackmailed the police to cover it up.

When he finally got her to calm down a bit, she laid down and he turned on the television to an old black and white film. It was a slow moving film, with lazy dialogue and peaceful scenery. He didn't know what it was called off the top of his head, but it chronicled the life of a simple samurai and the soft romance between him and his neighbor's daughter.

In short, it would put her to sleep immediately.

"Everything will be okay," he said as he wrapped her other arm, "I promise."

"I should be taking care of you," she sighed again, curling her knees to her chest.

Soujiro smiled, a genuine smile this time, and as he finished his handiwork, laid a light blanket over her. "But I am just fine."

With a kiss to her forehead, he stole away to the second floor. She'd sleep for a few hours, exhausted from the day, but when she woke up, the real disaster would begin. Leaning over he balcony, he observed her for a moment, then glanced towards the door at the end of the hall, her bedroom. He wondered. He pondered.

He prayed she'd be merciful.

Slipping into his bathroom, he snagged his anti-anxiety medication and made a dash back into his parents' room, entering their bathroom and throwing open the door to the medicine cabinet. Two glaring orange bottles met his vision and he pulled them out, twisting the caps off all three and pouring the contents down the sink.

He hated them, even his own, even when he needed them. _Especially _when he needed them.

'_We don't do drugs_' she had told him that day, ten years ago, when they had come to rescue him from that horrible orphanage. And she didn't, not at that time.

But then Okita had gotten sick. He was _dying_, and something inside of Shousha had snapped. Or perhaps it wasn't that she snapped, so much as went back to what she knew_. _Soujiro never meant to eavesdrop, but when his uncle Hajime had come to the house one night, he had screamed at her.

_You will not turn to this!_ he had roared, throwing all the pills down the disposal, _I will not watch you destroy yourself again!_

It was then that Soujiro realized secrets had been kept from him. He also learned that his mother had very little regard for authority, even when it was for her own good, and as her husband's health crumbled, so did her own desire to live.

It was selfish of her, incredibly and unforgivably so, and Soujiro knew that was why she was hurting herself now. She was filled with regret. Any other child might have felt alone with one parent in intensive care and the other, submerged in manufactured catatonia, but he didn't. He wasn't angry with her. Concerned, but not angry. They had saved him, they _wanted _him. How he could be anything less than grateful?

Even though he couldn't find it in himself to resent his mother, he _loathed_ the pills. He hated coming home and finding her unconscious at the kitchen counter, by her easel, or, once, in her wedding dress.

They did that to her. They made her feel nothing, as if feeling nothing could help.

But it did, he knew it did. Not feeling, turning off human emotion had gotten him through his first six years of life.

Then, this father had survived, recovered, and returned home. His mother smiled again.

Everything was right.

But now it wasn't, and now _he _was to blame. He couldn't let her become that monster again. He couldn't be responsible.

Taking a permanent marker from the bedside table, he scribbled some notes across the empty bottles, placed them in the cabinet, and closed the door, smiling into the mirror.

Something caught his eye then, something rather unassuming. The laundry hamper was full, so full it didn't close properly. At the top, his father's dress shirt from the night before.

His smile flickered on and off as he reached for the garment, pulling it from the pile and clutching it to his chest.

"He's coming home," he whispered to himself, "he'll come back."

He nibbled on his bottom lip, noticing it was trembling, and staggered out of the bathroom. Emotion washed over him, a familiar feeling, the same emotion he had felt, staring at the monitors in the hospital room, wondering if every second he spent with his beloved father would be his last.

Stumbling across the room, Soujiro ran to the bed, throwing himself onto Okita's side. He gripped the shirt, inhaling the familiar scent. He wondered if he'd ever smell it again. He curled up, hugging it tightly.

Then, he cried.

xxxx

When Okita stepped into his mother's fashionable townhouse located in the heart of Tokyo's elite, he felt a certain comfort wash over him. If anyone could give him advice on how to deal with this situation, it was his mother. A wiser woman he'd never known.

He barely had time to remove his shoes when she came flying out of the dining room, calling out his name. He hadn't called her, how had she known? Had Shousha called her?

At sixty-two, Okita Hana moved with remarkable swiftness. When she saw him, she stopped, sighed, and pressed a hand to her heart, as if relieved that he had made it to her alive.

"Mother," he greeted her softly, stepping up into the house to give her a kiss.

She welcomed him graciously, taking his hand and leading him to her sitting area. Her hands, always busy sewing or arranging flowers, or practicing traditional calligraphy, betrayed her age in a way her face never would. She was aging gracefully, but he knew (even though she would never admit it) much of the youth she still carried in her face could be attributed to a wee bit of plastic surgery.

"I have distressing news," he began as he sat down in an armchair, clasping his hands together, "Soujiro. . ."

"I know," she told him with a small smile, setting out some chocolates to put him at ease. She picked one up with all the grace of the gently bred lady that she was. "Isami called me this afternoon."

Okita sat up straight, and cocked his head. Kondo had called _her_?

Sensing his confusion, she raised an arched brow, "He was a very good friend of your father's. He's concerned for you and for your family. Is that so unusual?"

He sat back. Perhaps not then.

"Are Shousha and Soujiro visiting with Kogoro, then?"

Okita bristled inwardly, hating that even his mother was on friendly terms with the man. Could he have _nothing_ that didn't involve him?

"No," he replied shortly, "I came alone."

"Ah," she sighed, "then I suppose Hajime has the pleasure of keeping them company."

Shock, regret, and panic began to bubble in Okita expression and Hana reached for another chocolate, carefully.

"Soushi. You don't mean to tell me you've left them. . ._alone_."

"I was angry."

"Soushi!"

He scratched underneath his ponytail and then gave it a nervous tug. "I was angry," he confessed again, "furious. I needed to get out. Just... to get away from it, from, I don't know, from them, from her."

Hana let out a ragged breath and nodded, posing no judgement, and no reminder of what happened the last time he walked out on Shousha.

"They are in no position to be alone," she told him gently, "though I have far more faith in Soujiro than I do in Shousha."

Okita's mouth turned up a bit at that. "He's probably taking good care of her."

Still, he would call Saitou later.

"I couldn't stay there in that house, Mother. She _blackmailed_ Kondo-sama. She twisted the law to suit her own desires."

"Darling that is the world we live in. Money and status can change any person's past, present, or future."

"It _shouldn't_ be that way," he ground out, "I live my life every single day upholding the very laws that my own wife has tainted."

He was breathing heavily; he was putting too much stress on himself, so Hana cleared her throat, and excused herself to make some tea. When she returned, she handed him a cup and gave his cheek a loving stroke.

"Soushi," she whispered, her eyes reflecting compassion and sorrow, "you were born into privilege, your father and I have done everything we could for you and yet you have been met with nothing but grief. Life has been incredibly unkind to you and it breaks my heart every single day."

Okita sighed and smiled. "Mother please, my troubles are no fault of yours."

"I know," she conceded, "but you see, that is a mother's heart."

He tilted his head in confusion, but before he could open his mouth to preach his independence and capabilities, she cut him off.

"When Shousha used her station to pull strings and bring Soujiro home, she wasn't acting out of petulance or selfishness, darling, but out of love. Love for her _child_."

Stunned, Okita froze, holding his tea. Was his mother _siding_ with Shousha? He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. The law was the law. Was he the only one who saw that?

"I don't expect you to see that, Soushi. You're too much like your father for your own good sometimes."

"Father would not have approved."

"You're right," she acquiesced, glancing to the side table where her wedding portrait stood framed, "he would have gone about it quite differently, in fact. As I imagine you would have."

"I don't know what I would have done. I hadn't figured it out yet."

Hana chuckled. "I know."

Okita cast her a doubtful glance. "You weren't there, Mother, you don't know."

With a knowing grin, she placed her now empty cup on a small quilted coaster and, clasping her hands in her lap, she sat back.

"You would have kept him imprisoned at the station. You would have pressed for a speedy trial. You would have gone out of your way to find the very best defense attorney in the city, in the country if you had to. You would have watched Soujiro squirm as he learned a very hard lesson in the type of choices he should and shouldn't make. But after all was said and done, he would be acquitted of the charges. You would lecture him, and then you would have coached him through his healing."

Okita blinked.

"Yes. Yes I suppose that's exactly what I would have done."

"Like I said," the elderly woman quipped, "you're too much like your father."

"And what about you?" he asked, "what would _you _have done?"

Hana looked at him directly, "I would have done exactly as Shousha did. Cut out the middle man. I could never bear to see any of my children in prison, no matter the crime."

Okita thought on this for a moment, then slumped down in a childish petulance. "You weren't there," he repeated, "You've never been through it, so you don't really know."

It shouldn't have, but this amused his mother. He was upset and wasn't quite sure how to deal with the strength of his emotions. He had acted impulsively, thought to seek out answers, and now that the conversation wasn't going his way, he was recoiling. It was time to put him back in his place.

"And do you believe that you have never disappointed me? You were a teenager once too."

"I never _killed_ anyone," he snapped, "and I never covered anything up."

"Really." Her voice was quiet, deadly so, and she picked another chocolate from the box, raising her brow, this time not out of curiosity, but authority.

"So then you have never made a choice with disastrous consequences, not once. Never."

It was as if she had slapped him. His throat was tight and he grit his teeth, grasping for composure. "I spent a great deal of time blaming myself for what happened then," he said harshly, his voice low, "and not a day goes by that I don't regret it."

"Then you should understand what your son will be going through."

Okita swallowed.

"This isn't about you, Soushi. No matter how angry you are, no matter what you think _should_ have happened, Soujiro can't make it alone. You shut everyone out when you were his age, you holed up your heart and you let blame consume you. You nearly let it destroy _everything_ you had worked for."

"It wasn't just me. Shousha—"

She held up her hand. "Shousha will always crumble in adversity. It is her nature. But you are good to her. You are good _for_ her. And Soujiro needs to see that as well. You are an excellent father, Soushi. Don't let yourself think otherwise."

He inhaled sharply and it quivered. His eyes watered and he shut it down. "I'm scared," he admitted, "I'm terrified that this is the beginning, that he'll want _more_. That, that this will be his life and then I'll lose _her_ because she can't handle losing. . ._anything_ else. "I just. . ." he sighed, and then inhaled again, "I don't know what to do."

Hana rose and planted a gentle kiss on her son's forehead. "Stay here for a few days," she invited, "calm down and forgive yourself so when you return home, you'll be able to forgive them."

"I'll call Hajime," he said, more to himself than anyone else, "I'll make sure they're alright."

She smiled at him. "They'll be alright. You all will."

If only he could believe that.

xxxx

After regaining his composure, Soujiro fed the dog, careful not to wake his mother, then retired to his room where he lay on his bed with a book he couldn't concentrate on. He had tried working on the car that sat unfinished at his desk, but it reminded him too much of his father, so he couldn't even bear to look at it.

He supposed he needn't study for the upcoming test either, as he was now supposed to be ill and thus, couldn't attend school. He was tired, but he couldn't sleep, nor could he focus on anything.

He was anxious, more anxious than he'd ever been in his life, and for the first time, he wondered what it might be like to follow in his mother's footsteps. To take so many chemicals to his system that he died, even just for a few hours. Lifeless in his bed, without dreams, without worry.

But he couldn't. He had done away with the pills and he was more glad for that with each passing minute. He'd never felt this sort of desperation before and it scared him. He was alone, he was confused, and he didn't know how to handle himself, what he had done, or who he was becoming.

There was a light 'thud' at his window then, barely audible. Then another, and another. Rising, he opened the window and looked down. Shining eyes and a bright smile greeted him and Misao held up a box of fruit snacks.

"I was wondering how many of these I'd have to go through before I got your attention."

Soujiro smiled. "You shouldn't be here, little ninja."

"Yeah," she said, closing the box and chucking it upwards, "I know."

He caught the box, happy that it was full, save the one package she had used to seek permission to see him, and leaned out the window, waiting for her to climb up close enough for him to take her hand and pull her inside. It was a method they had used since they were small. Initially she had run to him during the summer, when lightning storms plagued the city, and she desired a distraction from the thunder that boomed overhead.

Now that they were older, and their hormones ran wild, she found he way into his bedroom more frequently. The days of blanket forts became nights cuddled up to a movie, and the play fights melted into urgent kisses, the air electric with the possibility of being discovered.

Tonight, however, she had no intention of being rebellious or sultry. She had no anticipation of his hands in her hair or his lips at her pulse. She only wanted to be with him. She _needed_ to be in his presence, to know he was alright, and to hear him tell her she would be too.

"So," she grunted, tossing her purse over the ledge, then using her elbows to climb into the room, "I heard mama came to the rescue today. Kudos to her; that takes balls."

Soujiro let out a breathy laugh. "That's my mom. She always gets her way."

Misao flopped onto the bed, careful not to hurt Ta-chan, who was sleeping against the wall. "Yeah well, if she didn't, I'd be talking to you through bars."

How could she be so flippant, he wondered. Wasn't she the least bit upset?

"Are you alright?"

It came out quickly, too quickly for him to think whether or not it was a proper question to ask her, but he couldn't help it. He'd put her through something unimaginable. As tough as she was, no one could come through that unscathed.

As his question reached her ears, her smile faded, and the feeble walls she had built up on her journey down the street collapsed. She didn't have to hide here. She could convince her brother and her grandfather that she was simply 'shaken up', but she never had to lie to Soujiro.

"I didn't sleep last night," she told him, swallowing, "I kept seeing his face, I could feel his hands on me, I could. . .you killed him, Sou."

"I know." His voice was dull and unsteady, "I'm sorry."

"Can I stay here tonight?" she asked, "with you?"

His blue eyes widened at the request. "Misao you can't just_ stay _here. Your brother will be furious. My mother will—" as he considered it, he imagined his mother might actually be quite pleased, "—you'll get in trouble."

With a determined sort of pout, She rolled off the bed, braid swinging at the force of her movement. She marched over to the window where he still stood, and stopped before him, hands on her hips.

"I'm not leaving, Okita Soujiro. I won't leave until I feel okay. I won't leave until I know that _you're_ okay."

Raising his hand slightly, he smiled down at her, tracing the outline of her jaw, chuckling. "I'm not okay." It was the first time he'd said it out loud. "I feel completely. . .lost."

"Let's talk about it," she said, spinning from his touch and tearing off the sheets and blankets from his bed. Before he had a chance to protest, she began to work on the makings of a fort, like they had as children. This one was a bit bigger, to better fit them, and when he glanced at the box of snacks and her unusually stuffed bag, he realized she intended to stay from the beginning.

They climbed into their fort and they both lay on their sides, heads propped up in their palms.

"So, what's the matter?" she asked, trying to keep cheer in her voice. It always worked when she was upset and he acted happy. "Mama's not OD-ing again, is she?"

"No, I took them away. I don't think she noticed yet."

This time, Misao's eyes grew. "You _took them away_? Sou, she's going to be pissed!"

"I don't care," he said resolutely, "I won't let her become a monster again. Not because of me."

She nodded, "what about your pops? Aoshi said they made him take a leave of absence. The whole station is talking about this, yanno."

Soujiro's smile turned upward, but his eyes betrayed him. "He left."

Misao sat up. "He left? Whaddaymean he _left?_"

He shrugged. "He's gone. I don't know where he went. We came home, and they got into a fight about it and he just. . .walked out."

". . .fuck."

He didn't even care that she cursed.

"Yeah," he agreed. "fuck."

"But," she brushed it off, "he'll come back, right? I mean, he's just gonna take some time to chill out and wrap his head around it."

"See, that's the thing. I don't _know_ if he'll come back. I can't tell. He was so angry."

"He's coming back," she decided, "he's not an asshole."

They sat in silence for a few moments, digesting the news, and after a while, Soujiro relaxed his arm, and laid on the floor, wishing he could find it in him to sleep.

"I don't want you to have nightmares, Misao," he told her. "I don't want you to hurt because of me."

This earned him a shove. "Shut up, dummy," she scolded, "I wouldn't _be_ here if it weren't for you. Stop it with the regretful hero crap, okay Sou? Just be. . .at least a little bit happy that we're here tonight."

He watched her as she flipped onto her back and crossed her arms behind her head, using them as a pillow.

"Besides," she continued, lowering her voice, "any nightmares I have stop when I'm with you."

She was admitting weakness to him, something she rarely ever did and he was thankful for it. It proved that he wasn't the only one of them who couldn't always hold it together. He doubted she knew how good she was for him, assuming that he knew her well enough to brush it off and wait for her mood to rebound.

"Thank you," he said quietly, sitting up and crossing his legs, like he used to do as a child.

"For what?" she asked with a bitter chuckle, "you're the one who saved me."

His smile was slight as he answered, almost inaudibly, "for being my someone."

Misao paused, frozen in her place, then she turned, and sat up slowly. He hadn't mentioned her being his 'someone' since she had held his hand, his frozen, ice cold hands, in his father's hospital room.

_I wouldn't make it through this without you_, he had said. _My mother was right. Everyone needs a someone_.

He had been so desperate then, so unsure of himself, uncomfortable in his own skin, and it broke her heart. The Soujiro she knew was always happy, full of well wishes and good advice. He was confident, a role model.

Yet here he was again, at the bottom of the world as it crumbled on top of him, not knowing whether his family would stay together, and this time, with the blood of another person on his hands. Still, he was trying to be there for _her. _

Scooting forward, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him forward, guiding his head to rest against her chest. He didn't resist, instead, his arms fell around her waist, hugging her back. He concentrated on her heartbeat, and the way her fingernails grazed the back of his neck as she stroked his hair. He thought about the way she smelled like the tea she served to her customers and her brother who meditated at the shrine behind the house. He thought about her breathing, the way her chest rose and fell in a slow, but steady rhythm that might just put him to sleep.

He focused on her voice that had lost its edge, just for him as she whispered to him.

"I love you, Soujiro."

xxxx

It was late when Shousha finally managed to roll off the couch from her nap. Her arms stung, but she shrugged it off. The lights were off throughout the house and she squinted to look at the clock on the stove as she walked past the kitchen. _11:28_. Soujiro would be asleep by now, she imagined, so she made her way up the stairs alone.

It wasn't three minutes into consciousness did her thoughts return to the fight she had with her husband. The image of him pulling himself free of her, and the sound of the front door as it slammed in her face all flashed through her mind and her breath started to come in short spurts. Her heart raced and as the deepest and most pessimistic part of her soul came forth, visions of a courtroom, of paperwork, of _divorce_ nearly crippled her.

She shouldn't have been thinking of it; she didn't know what Soushi was thinking, as he refused to speak to her, but in the panicked state she was occupying, she didn't see how they would make it through. She couldn't shake the way he had looked at her. He was repulsed by her actions. He _hated_ her.

She couldn't feel like this anymore. It was too much.

Stumbling into her bedroom, she dashed into the bathroom and practically tore off the door to the medicine cabinet as she opened it. Amidst the bandages, the headache medicine, cough syrup, and Okita's antibiotics, were her pills. Soujiro's were among them as well and though she didn't recall sneaking his stash in here, she didn't care.

She ripped them from the shelf, but froze. They were empty.

"No."

She popped the top off her anti-anxiety. Nothing. Anti-depressants. Empty. Soujiro's prescription. _Gone_.

On her way through the hall, she had heard Misao's voice in her son's room. He hadn't taken them, he had disposed of them.

She swallowed and gripped the sink, panting, and gasping for breath.

"Oh Soujiro," she moaned, eyes wild as she shoved her fingers into her hair, "Why? _Why would you do this to me!"_

She tore from the bathroom, yanking open the drawer to her bedside table, but to no avail. The medication she kept there was what she had brought to the station earlier that day. It had been confiscated.

"Why?" she asked, trembling, "Soujiro _why_?"

She could barely dial the phone that she managed to pull off the receiver. Her hands shook and her lips quivered. She could hear the blood coursing through her veins. Her throat tightened and when the other line picked up, her hands couldn't even hold the phone steady at her ear.

"Little sister," came the soft, crooning voice of Katsura Kogoro, "how are you, darling?"

"I need help," she pleaded, "please, _please_ help me."

Shousha could almost see him straighten on his couch, removing his reading glasses, brow furrowed in concern for her.

"What's wrong?"

She turned, glancing into the bathroom where she had scattered the three bottles over the counter. There was writing on them she hadn't noticed before. Soujiro's script. Wandering back in, she picked up the first. Her anti-anxiety pills.

"I need—"

_You don't need these_, it read.

The next bottle was her son's.

_Or these._

"Shousha?" Katsura's voice was raised, "Shousha are you alright?"

She was shaking as she reached for the anti-depressants, almost terrified at what it would say. She turned the bottle in her hand, and when she read what he had written, her eyes welled up and she hated herself.

_Hug me instead._

_ "Shousha!"_

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she choked back a sob and lifted the phone back to her ear.

"I'm sorry," she said weakly, smiling a wobbly smile, "never mind."

Katsura wasn't convinced. "What's wrong? Should I come over?"

"No," she said, breathing deeply, clutching the bright orange container, "no it's alright. I thought I needed something but. . ."

She could hear him sigh. She heard the delicate voice of his finaceé inquiring about her wellbeing. It was late; she had probably woken her.

When he spoke again, his voice was even and calm, always the contrast to her irrational and emotional outbursts.

"Shou if you need something, please tell me."

"No," she said, sitting down on her bed, "no, it's fine. I'll call you later on this week."

"If you are certain." his voice was doubtful, but she was sure he'd learn the truth through the grapevine eventually.

"Yeah," she sighed, "I'll be okay."

When she hung up the phone, she stared at the bottle in her hands, and even though the urge, the desire, the raw hunger to spiral into oblivion was still there, it didn't hurt, and it didn't control her. She would go downstairs and make herself a cup of hot chocolate. She would bid her son goodnight and tell Misao that yes, she was welcome to stay the night. She would climb into bed and channel surf for a bit, until she streamed her favourite movies. Then, she would fall asleep and when she woke, it would be a new day. It would be a better day.

And she would be a better mother.

xxxx

**Author's Note: **Whenever I picture Okita being angry, it's always for good reason, but he's also so very childlike that his desire to be just may morph into the need to always be _right_, so I had fun with mama Okita here :3

I think the next chapter will be the last and I will apologize. I did intend for this to initially be a Sou/Misao fic, buttttt... it ended up being more of a family issues fic than anything else. Whoops.

We will get to see more of Aoshi in the next chapter though. :O I'm exited for it.


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